The Survival Games
by Emma98moon
Summary: What if the Hunger Games were played by different rules? What if the tributes were picked secretly instead of out in public? What if everything about them were different? And what if... what if the tributes weren't completely human?
1. Chapter 1 - The Letter

_It was just another day like any other..._

Nothing was going on as I sat in my history class with a couple friends. We laughed and joked around, making fun of the substitute teacher who was currently at the front desk asleep. Mrs. Cathaway's face was hidden by her long, curly red hair, but her not-so-soft snoring was hard to miss as she laid on her bare, pale arms.

After my friend, Darren, made a spectacular joke about her flying off of her chair, I gave a glance over at her. I had just perfect timing, too, because as I did, I saw a squirrel scurrying across a tree branch in the window behind her. The squirrel stopped, brought it's hands up to its' face to do something with a nut, and it continued on its way.  
I smiled, the warm, sunny spring rays shining brightly through the window. The rays seemed to warm the whole class, but not even if I stayed in that room could it have kept me warm through the news I'd learn of later that day...

Darren, Amy, Christie and Sapphire jolted my attention back to the table when they started bouncing erasers off of the desk and laughed at where they landed. One got the most laughs when it soared across the room and bounced off of Mrs. Cathaway's head. At first, I was struck froze, thinking she would wake up and start yelling at the class, but instead she stayed asleep, although I didn't know how.

"Give me a pencil," I whispered. A pencil was thrust into my hand by my blonde friend, Amy, and as I took it, I turned my seat a little bit so I was facing the door. "How much you wanna bet I can make it land in Mr. Passer's room?"

"Not a chance!" Darren's blue eyes, that held a tint of red, held a look of amusement as I brought my hand back, destined to prove him wrong. I bit my lip a little as I moved my seat again, hoping to make this shot.

"Give me five bucks if I make it?" I ask.

He looked back and forth between where I sat and Mr. Passer's room. "Ten," he declared.

My face was filled by a smile, and as my hand slammed down on the desk, the pencil released from my grip, it bounced forward, past Sapphire and- without further adieu, it bounced several times off of the floor and into Mr. Passer's room. I, myself, wasn't one hundred percent sure it would go all the way through the hallway, but it did!  
I stifled a laugh, "That's ten bucks, buddy!"

Darren shook his head slowly, although he was smiling, too, as he leaned forward off of his seat and pulled out a crisp, clean-cut ten-dollar bill and placed it in my hand. His ashen-colored skin slightly glistened in the sunlight and a fang poked out from under his lip.

"I'll win it back in another bet," he says.

I doubted it, highly, but I let him have his hopes anyways.

"You can get it back just as soon as you let your mom shave your head again."

Sapphire, Amy and Christie all erupt into fits of laughter as Darren's eyes turned cold. "That's not cool!" he says.

"She was drunk!"

"She was hilarious!" I retort and join my friends in their laughter.

About a year ago, the five of us were at Darren's house. It was a weekend and we were all going to stay over late because his mom wasn't home and we were having fun playing video games. Well, when midnight strolled around, since usually his mother didn't get home until about two, she actually stumbled through the door and into the living room. The stench of liquor was very strong and she was extremely unstable.

Earlier in the day, before his mother left, we were all joking about him getting his brown hair cut. It was really long, past his shoulders, and he really got ticked when we joked about it.

So, now that his mother was home, stumbling into the living room of their house, she held a pair of scissors in her hands and started yelling gibberish. Whenever she was drunk, she was highly difficult to understand. However, she looked angry at the four of us girls sitting in her living room with her son so late at night, so she started pointing the scissors at us, and we took that as our cue to leave.

The next day, Darren Hallander came in to school with a third of his hair shaved, a third of his hair still long, and a third of his hair sticking up in spots

Everybody laughed at it, and although we knew it was mean, we couldn't help it! We really couldn't. Everybody who saw it laughed, and I could have sworn I saw him laugh once when we saw his reflection in the window of a door.  
Amy and Christie started to laugh harder when Darren's face turned red. The two twins were absolutely on the brink of losing it. Both of them were leaned forward, their arms holding their stomachs as their long, blond hair fell in front of their faces. It took a while before any of us could regain our breath, but every time we looked at Darren's scowling face, the laughter was brought on again and again. Eventually we just stopped looking at him. Finally we could breathe again, but my sides hurt and I could bet theirs did, too. Amy and Christie Steatzel focused on me like I focused on them, all of us trying to avoid laughing again. The only real way you could tell the two skinny, pale girls apart was by their eyes. Amy had soft green eyes that were the color of faded peas, and Christie had hazel-brown eyes.

I had hazel eyes, too, but mine were more a mix of gray and green.

Sapphire was the only one who actually laughed quietly, but her face was just as red as the rest of ours. Her thick black hair complimented her light tan skin and chocolate brown eyes. We were all in the habit of calling her _Reese_ sometimes, after the _Reese's_ candy.

I pulled my act together better when an announcement crossed the school.

"_Rosalyn Blythe to the office, please. Rosalyn Blythe to the office!_"

"Great," I muttered sarcastically as I pushed my chair back and stood up. I stepped behind it, grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder and kicked in my chair with my foot. "Wonder what I did now."

We share a smile as I walk towards the door of the classroom. The others students, and my friends, watch as I leave, all of us obviously wondering why I'm getting called, even though it's mostly none of their business.

As I walk down the hallway, I keep trying to think of reasons I'm getting called to the office. I mean, I haven't really done anything wrong lately, so, I keep coming up blank. Now, I'm not saying that I always do something wrong. I'm a good kid, all-and-all, but I do have my ups-and-downs with teachers more and more often nowadays. By the time I reach the door of the office, all I can conjure up is that I let a bad word slip out of my mouth and a teacher turned me in for it. That would only result in two days of detention.

As I twisted the doorknob and opened the office door, a blast of cool air hit me in the face. I walked in to the dimly lit room and took a seat in one of the lounge chairs pushed back against the wall off to the side of the large mahogany desk.

It takes a while, but eventually the front door opens and a thick, pale woman waddles in, smelling like hand soap. She's the receptionist, Ms. Whaler. Ironic name, right?

She doesn't see me until after she sits down at the desk. She doesn't even have to ask for my name; we've had more than enough encounters for her to know who I am. Usually upon seeing me, her face would scrunch into a glare or a scowl, and I don't blame her. I always give her cocky attitudes when she talks to me because the way she looks at me makes me feel like everything I get called to the office for means I should be put in jail, but I've never done anything _that_ bad . . . that any adult has witnessed, anyways.

It struck me as odd, though, the look I saw her giving me. She wasn't scowling, mad or even disappointed at me. In fact, her eyes held some form of sympathy, which, she _never_ held . . . for anybody.

"Go right back to Mr. Denzel's room, Rosalyn."

I don't reply, but I stand up and take my bag with me back as I make my way through the next door, down a long hallway. I passed about twelve offices or so before I come to the final room. I knock on the door, grab the handle and push the door open, but I'm shocked when I see that Mr. Denzel isn't alone.

No- he's not even in the room.

At all.

In fact, I only see two gigantic dudes, both dressed completely in white. One man had dark skin while the other was pale, with only a slightly tan hint. Although I never see men like them in the school building, it takes me less than three seconds to decipher who they are.

_Peacekeepers?_, I ask myself. _Why are they here_? Although I ponder, I can't decide.

"Who are you?" the pale guy asks. Both men have short hair but their eyes are covered with dark glasses.  
"Take a seat, Rosalyn," a familiar voice says behind me.

I turn and see Mr. Denzel, and instantly find myself wondering, _What the heck did I do to make the Peacekeepers come here_?

I take a seat in the only empty seat in front of Mr. Denzel's desk. I want to ask if I'm in trouble, but if I'm not it would seem suspicious so I stay quiet. I lean back in the seat and cross my left leg over the right, trying to look as though I don't know what's going on. Truthfully, I don't.

Mr. Denzel takes a seat behind his desk, and I notice he doesn't make eye contact with me like he normally would when I come to his office. Actually, he would be looking at my eyes as soon as I enter, to see if I looked guilty of committing a crime in school. I started to feel a cold sensation in my gut as he looked at the dark-skinned Peacekeeper. Mr. Denzel held his hand out, and part of me thought he was going to end up with a gun in his hand.  
No, actually. The Peacekeeper handed him an envelope and I felt my nerves easing a little until . . .

"Take this home," Mr. Denzel said. He pushed the envelope in front of his desk and held it out to me. Finally as I reached forward to take it, his eyes met mine and they looked sad and almost distant.

"Can I read it?" I asked.

"No," said the dark Peacekeeper. "Not here, anyways. Take it home and give it to your parents." His voice was really deep.

I feel a bad sensation in my stomach again. I ignore it, though, and stand up to leave the room. Mr. Denzel stops me though.

"Wait," he said. I turned to look at him and he sighed. "Rosalyn, I just want you to know that you've always been a good kid, okay? And . . . good luck."

_Good luck?_ I question silently. I don't know what he means, and I know it shows in my eyes, but I nod slowly and go to turn back around. Not before one of the Peacekeepers, this time the pale guy, talks to me after grabbing my wrist. I never said he was gentle, though.

"Put that letter in your bag and let nobody see it or know about it."

"If somebody asks," Mr. Denzel started, "you tell them you got in trouble for cussing."

I nod and leave the room.

I wait until I'm out of the office's view.

Then I run to the bathroom.

The first thing I do in the empty bathroom is run into a stall, throw my bag on the floor and rip the envelope out. I look at the front of it very closely, looking for an address, a zip code or something of the sorts to give me an idea of where it's from.

All it says, though, is '_From the Capitol to Rosalyn Blythe_'.

The Capitol? What could be so big that the Capitol sent me a letter?

My mind starts racing as I think of everything it could possibly be. They definitely aren't congratulating me on my grades, inviting me to a party outside of District 12 or anything like that. Maybe they know about the fights I've gotten into or the rare nights I spend among the gamblers in the Hardo? It's not like I gamble or anything, but people give me a few coins if I wander by, looking like a lost, innocent girl.

None of these thoughts extremely worry me, until I think . . . the last thought that crosses my mind makes me tear the envelope open.

_Please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong, please!_ My mind is screaming on the inside, my heart pounding, my palms and underarms starting to sweat. I can feel the heat from my forehead, too. The collar of my shirt started to feel like it was restricting my throat, keeping me from getting fresh air into my lungs.

As I ripped the final piece of the envelope away that was keeping it inside, I tear the note out and quickly unfold it. It takes me but two seconds to read the first line, and in that first line, my hopes are ripped away. Tears line the brinks of my eyes, my body suddenly going cold.

It reads, "_To the District Twelve female tribute of the 81st Hunger Games:_" and then I feel it. I feel all the contents of my stomach, from breakfast and the lunch I had before History, spilling out of my stomach and in to the toilet behind me as I crumpled the paper in my hands.


	2. Chapter 2 - His Meeting

I stayed in the bathroom for the rest of the day. Only when we were all dismissed to our buses did I dare to leave the bathroom.

On the bus, Darren, Sapphire, Amy and Christie all came to me.

"Where were you?" they asked in unison.

"Mr. Denzel called me to the office to talk and then I stayed in the bathroom because I felt sick and I threw up. A lot."

"Whew," Darren said, "I can smell it on your breath a little bit, girl! Want us to get off at your stop and hang with you at your house?"

"Nah," I said. "I'll get my mom to give me some medicine and go to sleep for a while, but thanks for the offer."

For the rest of the bus ride, they talked among themselves and when I got off of the bus, being the only one who got off at my particular spot, I- did not walk- _ran_ home.

The first person I would have to show would be my father, no doubt. It was always the father that found these things out first. _Always_. It could never be the mother. It always had to be the father.

However, at this same time every Friday, around three, my father would no doubt be in a major work meeting in the study of our house, and at any other time I would get in a lot of trouble for interrupting him. _But this is one time- one time I actually have to do it, no matter how mad he gets at me for barging in to his study. He'll understand once he knows_, I tell myself.

When our small three-story house comes in to view, I don't see any cars parked in front, which leads me to think that either they all parked behind the back of the house- _they_ being my father's work associates- or they finished up their meeting early.

I barged into the house and ran into the living room, the note fresh in my hand.

"Where's dad?" I asked quickly. My three older brothers, Michael, nineteen, Robert seventeen, and Herald, sixteen, were sitting on the couch playing a game on the television.

"Don't interrupt him, Rosalyn. He came home from work very mad and I think interrupting his meeting-"

I didn't let Michael finish his sentence before I was running down the corridor to the study.

"You'll get him mad!" Michael yelled after me, and soon I heard soft footsteps behind me, which told me that, not only was my father really, really mad- mad enough to give me a beating and/or punishment after his meeting ends- but also that he shouldn't be disturbed.

But my news was very urgent.

Michael was almost upon me, but I pushed the doors of my father's study open and tumbled in, Michael stopping right before he got to the doors. My father was sitting behind a long, circular mahogany desk, like the one at school, and his fellow associates were gathered all around in different chairs and seats. All of them, now, were turned around to look at the commotion, and I saw my dad's face turning red with anger. His red face didn't do much good complimenting his graying-brown hair.

"Rosalyn-" he started to yell.

"Dad, I can explain!" I yelled defensively.

"I'm in a meeting r-"

"Dad, please-" I cut him off again, only to be cut off by him.

"Rosalyn, no! Go to your room, I'm in a meeting!"

"But, Dad-"

He interrupted me again, his voice louder than before as he yelled at me to get out of his study.

I knew how to shut him up, and although he wouldn't like it, I ran toward his desk, unrolled the paper and slammed it down in front of him as I yelled, "**_Dad, look at the paper!_**"

The whole room fell into silence.

Absolute silence.

Even through the silence, though, I knew my words took immediate emotional affect as my father looked at the paper.

My brothers, all three, were standing at the doors before, but now they were slowly walking in to the room.  
I hadn't realized just how much my voice trembled at first.

And it wasn't until I saw at my father's eyes as he took the paper from my hand to read it further, that I realized I was already crying, too. Of course, I had cried in school, as well as now, so my cheeks and eyes were still a little puffy.

I sat in the kitchen, my brothers, sister and mom silent as my dad read through the paper again and again, hoping to find something that said it wasn't true; that the whole thing was just a ruse.

After ten minutes of silence, my mother spoke up.

"Henry . . . ?"

He slammed his fist on the table, the paper following, showing his face to the six of us. We all waited for him to say he found something, but when he looked up, I could see my father spilling tears.

"What's it say?" my mother asked.

I was just a little hopeful that he was playing a prank and would burst out laughing and tell us it was a joke, but his voice held nothing but sorrow.

"It says that in a week, Rosalyn has to be in the town square with everybody else and that when the time is announced for the female and male tribute to step up, she has to step up onto the soon-to-be-built stage and be taken away for the Hunger Games."

"That means . . ." I trailed off.

"That means that unless somebody steps up to take your place, you're being sent . . . to the Capitol."

***  
I always thought that when they called for tributes to step up, the boys and girls had volunteered to do it. When they cried, I thought it was because they were going to miss their families. When they died in the Hunger Games, I thought it was just because they didn't have the will to go on anymore.

I knew the Hunger Games started as a way to keep all of the Twelve Districts subdued from riots and acts of defiance, but I never realized that _that_ was how the tributes were elected. I never knew it was such a private process.

"What else does it say?" I asked, although I was pretty sure I didn't want to know.

"If you fail to show, all of us will be killed. If you try to run away, you'll be made into an Avox."

"Who is allowed to know?" my mother asked. Everybody sat tense around the table.

"Nobody except for us."

I found myself later, sitting in my room alone. I didn't want to watch anybody crying at the moment. I, myself, wasn't crying anymore. No, I laid under the covers of my bed, curled in a ball, staring blankly at the television screen although it was off. I had no thoughts being made in my mind, other thanwhat I might face out there.

Everybody's seen the Hunger Games. We all know what it is and what it's about. We all know the Games are to keep us from rebelling against the Capitol, against Panem. We all know that every year, at _least_ eleven tributes have to die, except for the 50th Hunger Games. That was the Quarter Quell that double the amount of tributes were sent in, and that was also the year that twenty-three of them died.

I find myself wondering how fast I'll be killed off and, if anyone, who I could ever manage to kill.

A knock on my bedroom door made me look up, startled. I was about to tell the knocker to go away, but the door slid open and my younger sister, Mollisa, stepped in. Her soft brown hair hung gently over her shoulders in two weak pigtails and her gray eyes stared at me for a few seconds. I stared back at the young, pale-skinned girl.  
"Can I come in?" her soft voice questioned.

I could see the pain in my sister's eyes. I couldn't tell her to get out when I would only have one more week with her.

"Of course," I responded in my own soft voice.

She stumbled in to my room, closing the door behind her, and she made her way over to my bed. She was wearing a long-sleeved red shirt and blue pants, but the sleeves of her shirt were so long that they covered her hands. She crawled up on my bed and I pulled the covers back for her so she could slip under and lay with me. She was only going on the age of seven, I realized as she curled into a ball next to me, her head leaning on my arm.  
"Do you think you're going to come back?" she asked after a long moment of silence.

I couldn't bring myself to reply quickly at all. I kept her waiting for a few minutes before I mumbled, "I don't know, Mollisa . . . I hope so."

"Me, too," she replied.

I gave a soft sigh as I rested my chin on the top of her head. At the same time, I felt drops landing on my arm and I realized right away she was crying. I slipped my arm around my little sister and held her close, but I couldn't start crying even though I wanted to.

My family has never been perfect. In fact, we fight with each other a lot. I never get into physical fights with them, though, but that's only because I stowaway to my room before a punch can be thrown my way. What I'm trying to say is, well . . . I'm going to be thrown into the arena with _no_ idea whatsoever how to fight or wield a weapon. Then I remember that there are training sessions before the Games officially start, but how much can they teach me in two little days?

_Maybe a lot, but probably not enough_, I think.

When dinnertime rolled around, my mother came to my bedroom door. She knocked and when neither of us said anything, her voice came hoarsely through.

"It's time for dinner," she said.

Both of us stayed where we were for several minutes, even after my mother walked away.

It wasn't until I heard Mollisa's stomach growling that I sat up and looked at her. Her eyes were red and puffy, but they were closed and her breathing was somewhat shallow. She was asleep for the time being. I slipped out of the covers and picked her up bridal style then proceeded to leave my room.

When I walked into the kitchen, my mother, father, and brothers were all around the table. Each one of them had puffy red eyes that glanced at me then quickly away. I felt as though they were disappointed at me, but I knew that wasn't the case. They were disappointed about the predicament we were in, but what could I do about it?

Nothing.

That's what hurt the most.

Dinner was already served although it wasn't much.

Everybody got two slices of bread, a small bowl of soup, and some chicken strips.

Mollisa didn't stir until I put her in her chair. That was when her puffy eyelids opened and she was the first one to start gnawing on a roll of bread.

I wanted to say something, to make this awkward sadness in the air go away. My mind refused to bring words together to create complete thoughts.

_I could always- I should say- what if- can I- will they-_, I couldn't complete a single thought. And it bothered me.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. All eyes in the room snapped to look at me.

"For what?" my mother asked. She cleared her throat to get the hoarse sound away, but it didn't work.

_For what_, I pondered. What _was_ I sorry for? Being chosen for the Games? Bringing that note home? Not running away before I got home?

"Being born," I spit out. Yes. Yes, that is what I was sorry for. Had I never been born, my parents wouldn't be facing this right now and none of my siblings would have shed a tear. Michael, the oldest. Mollisa, the youngest.  
My parents, the terrified.

Me, the tribute.

Eleven others that I don't even know yet, my enemies. The ones out to kill me, probably hating me before they've even met me, before this year's Games have even begun.

It's almost as though I can see how I'm going to die. And I don't mean just one way.

I can see my throat being torn out. A spear going through my body. A fire burning me alive. Suffocation. Drowning. Maybe my eyes will be torn from my sockets. I don't know.

But then, _who_ will kill me, perhaps, should be the question I ask myself now. Maybe I'll get killed by a Career, one of the rich kids from Districts one, two and four who show off before the games even begin by volunteering for the tributes already selected. They are usually always the biggest out of all the other tributes, and they always form an alliance. When you watch the Games, it's as though the alliance is formed before they're even selected to be the tribute, no matter who it is from those three districts.

But maybe somebody from a different district will kill me first. Maybe somebody else will get to me before the Careers have the opportunity to.

But then . . . there's only one other person who could kill me. Now I find myself wondering how hard it would be to kill somebody from the same district as you. I can only imagine having to kill a male from District Twelve out in the arena.

_Darren_.

What if he's the male tribute? No- those chances are so slim, it's practically impossible! . . right? Right?

I began to panic then when my mother's voice reached me.

"Don't you dare apologize for that!"

My head snapped up, as did the heads of my father and siblings, shocked to hear my mother speak in such a tone.

"You have a chance at winning this thing, Rosalyn! Don't start talking like that!"

I want to yell back, call her a liar, say she knows that isn't true and the proof is written all over her tear-traced cheeks. But I don't. I stare at her for a long minute, then muster the courage to speak.

"I have no experience in fighting," I said, but this seemed to only rile up my mother further.

"You used to pick fights with everybody when you were a baby and toddler! Your great-grandfather, bless his heart, may he rest in peace, used to take you out hunting when you were four and five years old! You weren't perfect with a bow and arrow, but you were strong with knives and daggers. You always finished making your grandfather's traps, and whenever they needed to be reset, you would be the one to fix them! You know why? He taught you so much before his dying year!"

She sat there, yelling at me, but none of these things I could remember. I couldn't even remember what my great-grandfather looked like. All I really knew about him was that he was excellent when it came to hunting, fishing, fighting and making traps, but I couldn't ever remember making them with him _or_ ever being around him. Perhaps she was talking about Michael or one of my other brothers, but I didn't dare to interrupt her. I waited until she finished speaking to say, "I don't recall any of this."

My father slammed his hand on the table before my mother could speak again, but he didn't do it out of anger. My father looked at me for the first time in what seemed to be so long.

"You wouldn't remember it after an accident you had, dear. What your mother is trying to say is that you had quite some skills when you were younger."

"Well, even if I did, I don't remember them! So what am I supposed to do? Go out there and pretend that I know what I'm doing? Hope that these memories come flooding back to me after how long? I doubt I'll ever remember the experience I had with my great-grandfather so don't start yelling at me about him!" I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

She was pretty much telling me that, if I could remember my past, I would have a chance of survival, but seeing that I have no recollection of what she's talking about, I was doomed.

I ignored my food and ran off to my room, a dark cloud hanging around my head now, each drop making me feel more and more like a failure. Although there was no real cloud, I felt like I was suddenly a let-down to everyone.

So wonderful for me.


	3. Chapter 3 - My Elements

_ We're at the small park in the middle of District Twelve. It's my parents, my brothers and myself. Mollisa has yet to be born._

_Michael and Robert wrestle in a patch of flowers, my parents sit on a small bench making kissy faces at each other, and I sat in front of a single yellow flower while Herald studied a black ant hill. Eventually he would start trying to kill the ants if they started getting too close to him. A small, black and orange butterfly flapped her wings as she sat on the flower although she went nowhere. The butterfly looked delicately beautiful as I rested on my knees, watching it with such intense interest. I'd never been able to see a butterfly up so close before, and I was afraid that it would fly away, leaving me alone on the warm summer afternoon._

_She didn't appear to have plans yet, though, because she stayed there and every time I giggled, she would flap her wings, facing my direction. I slowly put my hand out, my index finger outstretched, and to my surprise she jumped onto my finger._

_I gasped, stared at it and stood up slowly, turning around to where my parents sat on the bench._

_"Mommy!" I cried out softly. "Look! I got a butterfly!"_

_On the word 'butterfly', my brothers turned and looked at me like my mother did._

_"Congratulations, dear!" My mother got off of the bench and she walked over to me, kneeling down in front of me to look at it, too. She smiled as she surveyed it. "Do you know what kind of butterfly that it?"_

_I shook my head and my mother smiled._

_"Why, it's a monarch butterfly, sweetie! They're so rare around here."_

_My heart started to beat a little faster when my mother said it was a rare butterfly in District Twelve. I caught a rare butterfly!_

_Suddenly it took off, and a second later Herald's fist enclosed around my finger in a failed attempt to catch and kill the butterfly._

_I shrieked at the sudden impact of pain around my finger, but then I turned my attention to the butterfly flying away._

_"No!" I yelled. "Come back butterfly!" Keep in mind, I was only about four at the time._

_"Herald!" my father scolded him. Tears started to run down my cheeks as I chased the butterfly._

_"Come back!" I yelled again, but it was no use as it started to fly higher and higher away._

_My mom took me into her arms for a few seconds then told me to let her see my finger. It was only then that I became aware of the pain that was coursing through my hand._

_I caught a glance of Herald and I became so angry._

_"It's all your fault!" I yelled. "You're such a meanie! Why'd you do that?" Tears were tracing my cheeks but they couldn't cool the anger I felt inside. "I hate you!"_

_My mother looked very alarmed all of a sudden._

_"Rosalyn," she said. "Calm down, dear!"_

_But I couldn't. I started yelling at Herald, screaming about how much I hated him and how much I wanted to hurt him. I yelled about hating having him as a brother. I told him that I wanted to kill him . . . Yeah, I was angry._

_So, what's the angry little girl do?_

_Why, she starts smoking, of course!_

_No, literally. I started to burn up and my mother, who was originally hugging me, winced, shrieked, and jumped back in pain. Her arms were a dark red as though she'd been burned, and when I looked down at myself, I . . . I was on fire! It didn't hurt but-_

_A Peacekeeper stepped in suddenly and out of nowhere, he hit my head and knocked me out._

I startled awake, my breathing was fast, and I was in a cold sweat.

Sure, it wasn't necessarily a nightmare, but it was something that scared me. Out of nowhere, I was on fire and I didn't even know how it happened!

But that wasn't just a scary dream. That dream was actually what happened to me.

I leaned back against the wall my bed was pushed up against as I remember what happened when I woke up from being knocked unconscious. I was in a hospital room because I had to have a surgery done on my brain. The Peacekeeper did more than knock me unconscious- he gave me a very bad concussion that left me screaming for weeks. I didn't wake up until after the surgery which removed the concussion, but when I came to, my father told me something.

The way he said it, although I was young, really made me want to flip my lid. The way he said it so casually, as though it were nothing!

_"I guess I should have told you earlier, dear, but there's something special about our family. You, dear, can control the elements. . ._"

I didn't have a reply to that for three years. When I was seven years old, one day coming home from school, I walked right up to my dad and said, "You _guess_ you should have told me, Dad? What was your first clue?" When he gave me a confused look, I said, "The day I burst into flames?"

Of course, I wasn't able to control it, still, even though the next five years were spent teaching me how to control it. Not only the fire, though. I could control so much more, too!

And, I guess now that I think about it, I wasn't entirely mad at my father for keeping it from me because of that one day . . . I was also mad because, well . . . I could control the elements! It was, well, cool for a lack of better terms!  
At least, I _thought_ it was cool for a while, until I realized how hard it was to control them.

Every time I was mad, I found myself wanting to burst into flames- and sometimes I did. If it were in the middle of school, the teachers would yell at me. It wasn't a shocker to them that I wasn't completely normal. I mean, after that accident happened, I found out that I wasn't the only person in District Twelve that could do '_weird_' things like that. I have my hunches that people outside of District Twelve can do special things, too, but how could I know?  
Eventually I found out through one of my in-class outbursts that my Darren, my childhood friend, also wasn't completely normal. However, he fit more into the '_Not-so-Human-at-All_' group. He came to me one day after class and finally confessed what he was to me. He hadn't planned on telling me, but because of how things happened that day, he didn't want me feeling alone.

See, people had started to direct rude remarks my way, mostly about being a 'hot-head'. Normally I just shrugged their remarks away, but that day, I just couldn't and I didn't know why. But after Panem History, Darren came to me at my locker. I was about eight years old.

"Rosalyn!" he whispered in my ear. I jumped a little and turned around to find him smiling. He always smiled with his lips shut. I never questioned it, though.

"What?" I asked. Yes, I was glum, so I didn't have much of a humorous tone to my voice.

"I have a secret to tell you." He said it abruptly and then looked around through the empty hallways. Everybody had already left since school ended, but I made sure to be one of the last people out because I didn't want to deal with anybody else.

"A secret?" I asked. "What kind of secret?" My interest was a little perked, until he made a remark that scared me into thinking he was going to call me a hot-head like everybody else did.

"Well, it sort of has to do with you and your fire outbursts." When he saw the sadness in my eyes, he quickly added, "But not exactly! It's more about me than it is you."

At this new piece of information, I tilted my head and gave him the curious eye; a glance in which my eyes squint slightly, my head turns to the side and my eyebrow raises curiously all in one big motion. "Okay . . ."

"But you have to promise you won't tell anybody! Nobody can know, okay?"

"Oh . . . okay. I kind of figured that when you said it was a secret . . ."

He chuckled softly and held up his hand, extending his pinkie. "Promise you won't tell anybody?"

"Okay . . ." I wrapped my pinkie around his. "I promise I won't tell anybody your secret."

He smiled, and after letting our pinkies go, he takes my hand and starts to pull me down the hallway. "Come on! Follow me!"

We ran down the hallway and came to a big black door. It led out to the school playground in which we always hung out at in the morning. Darren pushed the door open and held it open for me, too. From the door, we darted off the small cement pathway and ran over to the swings. When he had something he wanted to say privately, that's always where it was done. Even though everybody had already went home, which no doubt meant we'd missed our bus, I'd assumed he felt it was only right to expose his secret to me there.

Darren's always been a little older than me. While I was only eight, he was already in the double-digits at the age of eleven. Sure, I'd be nine soon enough, but that fact was still there, and even then, he was always a greater friend than the other girls I hung out with.

I sat down on the first of the five swinging seats, and for a while, Darren just stood behind me, swinging me back and forth. We shared a load of laughter within ten minutes as the wind blew my hair back and forth, depending on which way I was swinging.

"Darren!" I yelled with a small laugh in my tone. "Wait!"

He helped the swing come to an ease. "Yes, milady?"

I rolled my eyes a little and laughed. "You wanted to tell me a secret, remember?" I glanced back to look at him.  
He smiled softly and nodded. "I did." He walked around me as the swing sat, now still, and knelt down in front of me. "Remember," he said. "You can't tell anybody, okay?"

"I know," I responded. "I remember. I pinkie-promised, didn't I?"

He chuckled and nodded. "You did."

"So tell me, then!" I squealed and we both shared a laugh.

"Rosalyn," he said. "You're not the only one who's different."

My heart immediately reacted to his words, slowly beating faster and making my palms become a little clammy. "Really?" I asked. "Who else is different like me?"

His smile faltered but only for a few seconds. He reached for my hands, taking them in his own gently. I didn't take it as anything more than a friendly gesture, but he said, "I am . . ." then he kissed my forehead. I was shocked a little and felt myself being pushed backwards by the sudden force of his lips against my forehead that I braced myself for a fall.

But then the feeling stopped, his lips were no longer against my forehead, and when I opened my eyes . . . he was gone.

The next day, Saturday, he popped onto my doorstep and asked me to come outside and play with him. Previously I had made plans with Sapphire the day before, but she was already an hour late so I decided to go spend the day with Darren. I had questions I wanted to ask, anyways.

So I told my father that I was going to go walk around, and when he asked me who I was going to go with, I told him Darren. He approved of Darren, but not as "boyfriend material", whatever that was supposed to mean. I left the house with Darren and we walked for a while.

I broke the silence eventually, as we were walking down a dimly lit alleyway. That's where I broke the silence.  
"Darren?" I asked, my voice soft.

He stopped walking, so I did, too, although he was a few feet in front of me. He tilted his head to the side, turned to me and looked at me with sympathetic eyes. "Yes?" he asked.

I looked down at the ground, the conversation suddenly giving me an awkward chill. "You didn't really . . . tell me your secret yesterday, like you said you would . . . you know?"

"I know. But I have a feeling there's a more direct question you want to ask."

I looked up at him, my best friend, and nodded. "Yes. I want to ask . . . well, I want to ask . . . You disappeared yesterday. How?"

He smiled but shook his head, "I know that's not what you want to ask."

I sighed inward, keeping my face ultimately straight. "What are you?" I blurted out.

He smiled and chuckled a little, "I'm Darren, I'm your friend, I'm your-"

"I mean, what makes you like me?"

He stared down at me for a long couple seconds. His eyes were a bright blue, tinted with simple but stunning specks of red throughout them.

He chuckled and whispered words under his breathe that I barely caught. "What _doesn't_ make me love you?"

"What'd you say?" I asked, unsure of what the last two words were.

He sighed and shook his head, "Nothing."

"What makes you like me?" I repeated, a little more demand in my voice, but not nearly enough to be mean.  
"I'm . . . a _vampire_."

I sighed, thinking about how long it took him to explain to me more details about what exactly he was, but something drew me out of my thoughts.

There was a soft rapping from somewhere, but I didn't know where. It sounded like my wall, but then it was coming from my door.

It sounded like somebody knocking, but it was going on four in the morning so who could it possibly have been?  
I pushed myself out of my bed slowly, trying not to make a sound. My bed squeaked a little as I quietly slipped my feet onto the floor. I started to feel around for something hard to use in case somebody dangerous had broken in to the house, but all I could come across was . . . what? There was something cold and metallic in my hands, but when I looked down I saw that it was just a mechanical pencil. I cursed to myself but headed toward my door anyways.  
As soon as I was at the door, my hand reaching for the knob, it twisted and slammed open. I jumped backward fast, my eyes closing, ready to shriek with my heart pounding and my palms sweating a little bit, but then a hand clamped down over my mouth and my eyes snapped open. It was-

"Michael?" I asked loudly, though my voice was muffled by his hands.

"Yeah, it's me," he hissed quietly, shoving my door closed from behind him. He removed his hands from my mouth and I instinctively dropped the pencil on the rug of my floor.

"What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?"

He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I know. But I had to bring this to you." He brought his other hand up to reveal to me a book encased in soft velvet with a thin bow keeping it closed. The pages between the two covers looked slightly golden although small groups of silver pages lined inside the book as well. I held my hands out and he dropped it in my grasp. When it fell into my hands it seemed so light- as light as a pencil.

"A book?" I asked.

"It's not just any book, Rosalyn. It's a special book that Mom can't know you have."

"What?" I asked. I always hated keeping things from my mother. "Why not?"

"Because," he said. "She doesn't even know that I ever had it."

"Is it bad or something? Did you steal it?"

He seemed to consider carefully how to phrase his words. "Yes, I stole it, but only from Mom because she was going to throw it away."

I didn't understand. "If she was going to throw it away, why would you keep it?"

"Because it holds precious knowledge for people like you and me, Rosalyn." _People like you and me_. Yes, Michael could also control his elemental abilities. We get the ability from our father.

"What do you mean?"

He smiled, "Just read the book in private when you can, but don't let anybody else know you have it, okay? And especially don't let mom know you have it. She'll flip her lid and ground all of us and burn it."

Burn it? "Is it evil or something? Does Dad know you have it?"

Michael chuckled, "I don't know if Dad knows. I think he suspects it, though. And no. It's just . . . You know Mom doesn't like us having our elemental abilities as it is."

"Yeah. She acts like it makes us very dangerous . . ." _And in some cases, like mine when I first got it, it does_.

"Well, she says that these things are dangerous, too . . . Just read them. You'll be glad that you do because I'm almost positive that they'll help you, okay? Now I have to get going. It's going on five and Dad will be waking up soon."

_If Dad embraces our powers . . . why does it matter- because Mom always wakes up with Dad._

I watched as Michael started to head toward the door to go back to his room down the hallway that was past Mom and Dad's room.

"Wait!" I hissed. He stopped and turned back to me.

"Yes?"

"You said you think it would help me . . . help me how?"

He chuckled again, "Well, what do you think?" He shook his head a little as he spoke as though it should be obvious to me. Suddenly his eyes turned cold as though thinking about something he hates. Then I found out why and I blurted it out.

"The Hunger Games."

**A/N - Hey guys! So, what do you think? I know it's not very popular yet and it probably seems . . . weird (lol) but I'mm still working on it. This ****_is_**** my first Hunger Games story, after all. Drop an opinion and tell me what you think, please? I'd appreciate it! :D :)**


End file.
